"I found him lying just like this," the man was explaining. "I tried to help, but..."
Preston stood up slowly. "It's okay, Rod. There's nothing you could have done. He's been dead for some time."
"But how could this have happened without anyone noticing before now?" Mac demanded.
"I don't know," Rod answered. "We were all busy, I guess."
Mac suddenly walked over to a shed, disappeared inside for a moment, and came out with a rifle that he cocked menacingly. Everyone instinctively took a few steps back as he aimed it toward the bull.
"Wait!" Melinda screamed.
But it was too late. A crack rang out. The bull fell to its knees, then plunged forward. Blood spurted from its head.
Melinda ran forward to confront Mac.
"How could you do that?" she demanded. "It might not have been the animal's fault!"
"Please. Don't interfere." Mac sounded drained.
Melinda paused, trying to think of a way to phrase what was really on her mind. "There could be something more to this."
Mac lowered the gun and gave her a pitying look. Then, he turned toward Rod and nodded in Melinda's direction. "Tell her, Rod."
"Ma'am, Sammy was gored to death. By this bull. I found the blood on the horns. They match the wounds in his body. And I guarantee you the coroner will agree with me."
Melinda struggled to maintain control over herself. "Sammy might have known something," she said carefully. "His death is just too much of a coincidence, because…"
She stopped herself as she scanned the group now staring at her with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. Better not to say too much. Because, as far as she knew, there wasn't one soul here she could trust.
"What you're implying is ridiculous," Mac said angrily.
"Oh?" Melinda said. "Tell me something then, Mac. Does it seem ridiculous to you that people on your ranch have a habit of turning up missing — or dead?"
With that, she stalked back into the house.
4
The next morning, Melinda awkwardly wriggled into the Levis and tried on the red and blue plaid Western shirt Mac had bought for her. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and jammed each foot into the stiff, new cowboy boots.
When she stood in front of the mirror, she had to laugh out loud at herself. She hooked her thumbs into her pockets, then twisted around for a better view. She chuckled again when she imagined how Perry would react if he could see her now:
"Really, Melinda. It's just not you. What would your clients say?"
It definitely wasn't the outfit for a date to the Bindel Tower Clubhouse. She had one more good laugh as she imagined herself, clinging to Perry's arm, her boots making a hollow thump as they walked up the elaborately tiled floor toward the horrified maitre d'.
Then her expression grew sober. She had no time for this kind of frivolity. She had immediate business to tend to, long distance calls to make. Her own cell phone had been lost in the flood. But it wouldn't do her any good out here anyway.
What she needed to do was visit the nearest town to find a telephone that would actually work. And the first person she planned to call was Perry. Next, she would ring up Ruth in the research department of the Atlanta office and ask her to help with a background check on Sacramento Ranch.
Ruth could use the Internet to research newspaper and magazine files, even credit reports. But in order to get started, Melinda needed transportation. Immediately.
Steeling herself for argument, Melinda marched downstairs to confront either Preston or Mac. But after a futile search of the house, she found only Harriet busily clearing away breakfast dishes in the kitchen. Harriet gave her a disapproving look.
"We eat at seven. Sharp."
Now that Melinda had regained her strength, it appeared special favors such as breakfast trays brought to her room were a thing of the past.
"I — lost my watch in the flood," Melinda found herself stammering. "I didn't know what time it was."
Strange that this woman with her fierce maternal manner could reduce Melinda's stone resolve to quaking meekness.
"Never mind. I saved you somethin'. Sit."
Melinda sat, as Harriet placed a plate of biscuits and cold scrambled eggs in front of her. Harriet unceremoniously slid a jar of homemade grape jelly and butter toward Melinda as she continued to clear the table.
"Actually," Melinda said. "I'm not sure I have time to eat. It's rather urgent that I speak to Mac or Preston about getting a ride into town."
Harriet paused only long enough to fix Melinda in a stern gaze. "This is a place of work. Preston and Mac are long gone."
"Surely you have the keys to some kind of a vehicle…"
"Not without their permission."
Choking down her exasperation, Melinda carefully buttered one of the biscuits and took a bite to try and at least maintain an appearance of being civil. It was best not to antagonize Harriet, who might turn out to be a valuable source of information.
"Well," Melinda said, trying to keep the impatience out of her voice. "Maybe I'll be able to track one of them down. The place isn't that big, is it? Or maybe they'll come in to take a break?"
"Maybe."
Melinda almost wished she hadn't healed so fast. Harriet definitely was a much nicer person when she thought her guest was in need of tending. Melinda reached up to the bruised portion of her face and pressed it tenderly, while rolling her eyes in the direction of the housekeeper.
"Ow," she said loudly.
That earned her a sharp look that quickly softened. "Hold on," Harriet said. "I'll go get you something for that."
Harriet disappeared momentarily, then reappeared with a wad of cotton and an unlabeled bronze bottle. She soaked the cotton with some of the bottle's contents, which smelled suspiciously like Mac's horse liniment. Then Harriet's work-wrinkled hands began to dab at Melinda's face.
Melinda blinked quickly, her eyes stinging, as Harriet began talking.
"I expect nobody much is going to have time for you today, Miss. They're all getting ready for the big futurity."
Melinda must have looked blank.
Harriet paused to regard her intolerantly. "The horse races. In Ruidoso. The biggest purse for quarter horses in the world. You mean you've never heard of it?"
"Well, no I…"
Harriet resumed dabbing at Melinda's face with a vengeance, causing the younger woman to wince. "It's like I tried to tell your sister when she was all the time bringing strangers here for some fool purpose. The boys have better things to do than entertain guests. So don't be expecting any more fancy treatment from us."
With that, Melinda gently reached up and grabbed Harriet's hand to steer it away from her face. Then, dropping the hand, she slowly stood up to meet the woman's hostile gaze.
"It's clear you don't think much of me, Harriet. Why is that? Is it because I'm Joan's sister? Is it because you hated her?"
Harriet backed up a step, seemingly taken aback at someone literally standing up to her. At least the woman had the decency to look a little ashamed as she dropped her head. The space between her eyebrows crinkled slightly in thought.
"I am — truly — sorry if something really has happened to your sister," Harriet said at last. "I don't mean to sound rude, Miss. But, the truth is, she's caused me a lot of hurt. Everything changed around here when Joan showed up last year. She caused a world of trouble between Mac and Preston."
"I know that's the way you see it, Harriet. But think about it. Preston and Mac still aren't exactly acting like the best of friends. And my sister hasn't been around lately to blame for it, now has she?"
Like a deflated balloon, Harriet suddenly dropped into a chair. "Oh, dear me. You could be right."
Melinda pulled up her own chair, and sat down opposite Harriet, who now stared desolately off into space. "They was always such pals, them two, even when they were boys. I raised them, you know."
"No," Melinda said in low voice. "I didn't know that."
<
br /> "Yeah. Their Mamma died when Mac was six and Preston was just a baby. Carl — that's my husband — has been foreman here since he was a young man. We never had children, so when Mrs. McClure passed away and left those two little ones...well, I guess her job was something I naturally took on. Lord knows, her dying so young was a tragedy. But in the long run it was a real blessing for me and Carl."
A smile glimmered on Harriet's lips. "They're both such fine boys. Preston was just a teenager when their Daddy died of a stroke. But that just seemed to bring them closer together somehow."
"That's how it was with Joan and me," Melinda said. "We lost our parents, too."
"Is that so?" Harriet's look softened as she regarded her guest. "Well, those two boys were the best of friends growing up. They could always depend on each other. Then — Preston got the wild notion to join the service."
"He told me a little something about that."
"Did he? Well, half the time we didn't even know where he was, his work was so secretive. We were so happy when he was finally discharged. He'd only been home a little while when he met that girl. He married her without even getting to know what she was really like."
"I wasn't very happy about it either," Melinda cut in gently.
"Is that so?" Harriet gave her a look of deep scrutiny, then sighed. "Well, I suppose it would worry you. It worried all of us. Those two. They could hardly keep their hands off each other at first. Maybe it really was love. Who knows? Preston is so mixed up these days. Not at all himself. Mac needs to be more patient with him."
Harriet frowned then, as though concerned she had said far too much to a mere stranger. She stood up, smoothed her dress and picked up the plate of food Melinda had hardly touched.
"You might find Preston in his office," Harriet said grudgingly. "It's down near the stables."
A few minutes later, Melinda was on her way. She stopped to ask a few directions of busy ranchhands who seemed eager to stop what they were doing to help her.
A few minutes later, she stood in front of a large white building that emitted an odor of antiseptic. The door to the right side had been identified as Preston's office. She tapped on it firmly. But when it opened, she saw a face that was only vaguely familiar.
"Oh," the man said unenthusiastically. "It's you."
His flaming red hair reminded her of his identity. This was Rod, Preston's assistant, who Melinda had seen bent over Sammy's body just yesterday.
"Hi, Rod," Melinda said cheerfully. "Is Preston here?"
"No. Sorry." Rod made motions as though to shut the door.
Melinda pushed her way through. "I'll just wait for him inside."
Rod eyed her warily as she looked around the small, cluttered office with undisguised curiosity. A nearby desk was piled high with papers. Next to it was a large refrigerator, the only item in the room that looked even remotely intriguing. Melinda walked over to it.
"Does Preston happen to keep soft drinks in here? My throat feels really dry."
As she reached for the handle, Rod dashed over — blocking the door with his body. "No," he said firmly. "There's no need for you to open that."
Melinda knew she was pushing the limits of polite behavior. But the clues to her sister's whereabouts must lurk somewhere in the shadows of this place. She was determined to look everywhere, pry into everything.
Rod attempted a flustered explanation. "We have some semen stored in there. From bulls. That's all. The samples have to be kept protected. Some of them are quite valuable. If they were to get broken...well. You understand."
"Of course," Melinda said, forcing herself to sound agreeable. She sat down in one of the metal folding chairs. "Do you practice a lot of artificial insemination here?"
Did she imagine that Rod responded with a furtive glance at the refrigerator? "Mostly just the beef cattle."
"Oh? Why not horses?"
"We do some of that, too. Strictly by the rules. Look — uh. Miss," Rod said. "I have a lot of work to do. I'll give Preston the word that you stopped by."
"Oh, that's okay," Melinda said brightly. "I have lots of time. You go right ahead with what you were doing. I'll wait in here."
She had the distinct impression that Rod's original plans involved leaving the office. But with her there, he settled into the desk and made a show of shuffling through some papers.
Melinda picked up a magazine published for quarter horse enthusiasts and pretended to browse through it. She carefully timed her next question.
"Why would you have to follow rules?" Melinda asked suddenly.
"Excuse me?"
"Oh, I don't know. Something you said a few minutes ago sounded — well, odd. About following rules during insemination. Why would there be any rules about something like that?"
Rod paused, seemingly to collect his thoughts. "Oh. Well, it's very simple. The racing association we belong to has — standards — regarding artificial insemination. I won't bore you with the details, but lineage in horse racing is a very touchy, very regulated business. For instance, you can't just freeze the semen of a prize sire and keep it on hand the way you might with a bull. Now if this were a thoroughbred operation..."
His voice drifted off, as though he hoped she had been satisfied with the explanation. Melinda didn't let him off so easily.
"And what if this were a thoroughbred operation?"
"Artificial insemination wouldn't be allowed at all."
"Why is that? To make the sire's fee more valuable?"
"I suppose that's part of it."
Rod determinedly returned to his papers, and seemed to become absorbed in something. Melinda dropped her head and pretended again to be studying the magazine. She allowed a few minutes to pass, before venturing another question.
"So are you a veterinarian, too?"
"No. But I've had some training."
"How long have you known Preston?"
"I've worked here about a year."
Rod finally stacked up his papers and moved them to the side. His green eyes lit with wry amusement.
"You're not fooling anyone with this act of yours, Miss Bailey. I heard your little remark after Sammy died. That's what you're leading up to, isn't it? Questions about Sammy? About the so-called mysterious circumstances of his death?"
"More like questions about everyone."
"I can't help you there. I'm new here myself."
"Not that new." Melinda put aside the magazine. "You could tell me something, I'm sure, about my sister. And about Sammy."
"Your sister and Sammy. Strange that you should mention their names in the same breath."
Melinda frowned. "I hope you're not implying what I think you are."
Rod grinned and shrugged. "Don't look so offended. It was no big secret. Everybody noticed."
"Everybody?" Melinda asked. "Preston, for instance?"
"I don't know." Rod sighed impatiently. "Look. There's some place I have to go right now. Just what was it you needed from Preston?"
Melinda explained her desire for a ride to the nearest working phone. Rod nodded amiably, then stood up and fished some keys from his jeans pocket.
"I'll make a deal with you. I wanted to drive into Broken Rock and pick up a newspaper. They have a little store with a pay phone there. Would that suit you? I'll take you in exchange for one little favor."
"What's that?"
"No more questions. Okay, Sherlock?"
"You got it."
A few hours later, after Rod dropped Melinda off at the main house, she found the McClure household to be as dark and quiet as a cave. Harriet was nowhere to be found in the kitchen, although there was evidence from dishes strewn on the table that lunchtime had come and gone.
Looking furtively around, Melinda put together a steak sandwich from the leftovers and quickly walked up the stairs to her room. She didn't want to have to face Harriet over being late for a meal the second time in one day.
Feeling strangely unsatisfied with the outcome of her recent fora
y into Broken Rock, Melinda sank despondently on the bed and began to munch on her sandwich. She actually had been successful with her handful of coins and interaction with the old-fashioned pay phone outside the small town's only store. In fact, she should feel elated with what she had accomplished.
She had managed to get through to Perry at the newspaper. And her friend had been a dear, lavish in his concern for her welfare. He had unsuccessfully urged her to give up her quest at once and come home. Then he filled her in on all the antics of their mutual friends. In fact, when she and Perry at last said their goodbyes, Melinda was left feeling wretchedly homesick.
In her next call, she had managed to enlist the support of Ruth in the advertising firm's research department. Ruth, noted for her flair for melodrama, had become an instant ally. She was busy at work, but promised to use her spare time at home and outside resources to track down information on Sacramento Ranch and its owners. Melinda also had given Ruth a list of names to investigate, including that of Roy Finch. Now Melinda would have to back off and give Ruth time to see what she could find out.
Meanwhile, she felt completely useless.
After finishing the last crumbs of her sandwich, she stood and restlessly flipped through the pages of a book she had carried up from the library. The murder mystery looked remotely interesting, so she took it with her out to the veranda overlooking the ranch.
There, she sighed deeply and squinted into the sunshine at the sweeping vistas of the ranch. Then she stretched out on a comfortable, padded lounge chair.
Instantly, Melinda felt drowsy. She settled back and allowed the warm breeze to massage her hair. With an artist's eye, she watched as a faraway, wooden windmill pumped water into a tank made of native stones.
She wished then that she had a drawing pad and pencil in her hands so she could capture the beauty of this scene forever.
At that moment, the mockingbird Melinda had spotted on her arrival to the ranch flew up and perched on the railing. As though aware it had a human audience, the bird began showing off with an elaborate serenade.
Sitting very still to avoid disturbing the feathered performer, Melinda smiled and continued to scan the horizon. Closer to the house, white fences enclosed lively young colts frolicking with their mothers in a field of alfalfa. The dark green color looked almost artificial in contrast to the brownish native grasslands in the distance. There, tiny dots of cattle grazed peacefully.
Night of Shadows Page 7
